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James and his Burden 






RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


AND OTHER STORIES OE DOGS 

By JOHN BROWN, M.D. 

M 

WITH A PREFACE BY 

THOMAS M. BALLIET 

Superintendent of Schools, Springfield, Mass. 


ILLUSTRATIONS AFTER RATON, BLACKBURN, STOCKS, 
HARVEY, DOUGLAS, AND MUNRO 



BOSTON, U-S.A. 


D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 


1901 

U. 


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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

JUN. 10 1901 


Copyright entry 

CLASS OL XX*. N*. 

■ / o<jiiS 

COPY B. 


I ^ 


,E ?>C2 

H 


Copyright, 1901, 

By D. C. Heath & Co. 


^^limpton 53rcs8 

H. M. PLIMPTON A CO., PRINTERS A BINDERS, 
t * { ‘ NORWOOD, MASS., U S A. 


MY TWO FRIENDS 


AT BUSBY, RENFREWSHIRE 
IN REMEMBRANCE OF A JOURNEY FROM CARSTAIRS 
JUNCTION TO TOLEDO AND BACK 




RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. 


The delightful sketches of this little volume need no 
introduction to the public; they have long since estab- 
lished themselves as classics in juvenile literature. If any 
justification of their character were needful at this late day, 
that which the author himself gives on the second page 
would be quite sufficient. They appeal to a healthy boy- 
nature, and their moral tone is good. They will be read 
with interest by young people ranging from the age of 
about eleven to fifteen ; as a reading book this volume 
will probably be found best adapted to the classes in the 
fifth, sixth, and seventh years of school. As the book 
was originally addressed to adults, a few omissions have 
been thought desirable in order to fit it for this purpose. 

The author of “ Rab and his Friends,” John Brown, 
was a physician in Edinburgh (born, i8io; died, 1882). 
But he was something more than a physician. He never 
had a large practice and never sought to make money. 
His life was quiet and uneventful, and he employed his 
leisure hours in writing of the things that he knew and 
the things that- he loved, always guided by the principle 
which he laid down for himself, — that a writer should 
never publish unless he has something to say, and has 
done his best to say it aright. 

How well he followed his own advice the world has long 
since found out. He has revealed in his writings a new 
world of doctors, clergymen, shepherds, and carriers, and 

vii 


viii Rab and his Friends. 

has always brought genuine human feeling, strong sense, 
and fine genius to his writings. Dogs and children he 
knew best and loved the most. Dogs he loved with an 
enthusiasm to be found nowhere else in all dog literature. 
He knew intimately all a cur means when he winks his 
eye or wags his tail, so that the whole barking race — 
terrier, mastiff, spaniel, and the rest — find in him an 
affectionate and interested friend. His motto was : “ I 
cannot understand that morality which excludes animals 
from human sympathy or releases man from the debt and 
obligation he owes to them.” 


THOMAS M. BALLIET. 


AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 


When my uncle, the Rev. Dr. Smith of Biggar, asked 
me to give a lecture in my native village, the shrewd little 
capital of the Upper Ward, I had an odd sort of desire 
to say something to these strong-brained, primitive people 
of my youth, who were boys and girls when I left them. 
I could think of nothing to give them. At last I said to 
myself, “ I’ll tell them Ailie’s story.” I had often told it 
to myself ; indeed it came on me at intervals almost pain- 
fully, as if demanding to be told, as if I heard Rab whining 
at the door to get in or out. 

Whispering how meek and gentle he could be ; ” 

or as if James was entreating me on his deathbed to tell 
all the world what his Ailie was. But it was easier said 
than done. I tried it over and over in vain. At last, after 
a happy dinner at Hanley and a drive home alone through 

“ The gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme ” 

of a midsummer night, I sat down about twelve and rose 
at four, having finished it. I slunk off to bed, satisfied 
and cold. I don’t think I made almost any changes in 
it. I read it to the Biggar folk in the school-house, very 
frightened, and felt I was reading it ill, and their honest 
faces intimated as much in their affectionate, puzzled 
looks. I gave it on my return home to some friends, who 
liked the story ; and the first idea was to print it, as now. 


IX 


X 


Author’s Preface. 


with illustrations, on the principle of Rogers’s joke, “ that 
it would be dished except for the plates.” 

My willing .and gifted friends, Mrs. Blackburn, George 
Harvey, and Noel Paton, made sketches, all of which are 
given now. Rab was a cob of a Dog, and nothing of a 
gentleman. The head on the title-page by Douglas 
(Edwin the Second), with its alert ear, its air of “ Come 
on ! ” is liker, though hardly big and formidable enough. 

The beautiful and pathetic piece by my friend, George 
Reid, is now given. It seems to me full of expression and 
gentle power. The desolate Jeems, Jess, and the bewil- 
dered, cordial, old beast, — all three plodding dumbly and 
with haste through the snow, the dreary morn breaking 
over the sea. 

* * * * 

I like to think that the children’s heads so delicately 
rendered by Mr. Dumb Stocks have among them my dear 
friend, the artist Parvula, and my own ; I must not say 
how long it was ago. I need not add that this little story 
is, in all essentials, true, though, if I were Shakspere, it 
might be curious to point out where Phantasy tried her 
hand, sometimes where least expected. 

It has been objected to it as a work of art that there is 
too much pain ; and many have said to me, with some 
bitterness, “ Why did you make me suffer so ? ” But I 
think of my father’s answer when I told him this, “ And 
why shouldn’t they suffer ? she suffered ; it will do them 
good ; for pity, genuine pity, is, as old Aristotle says, ‘ of 
power to purge the mind.’ ” And though in all works 
of art there should be a plus of delectation, the ultimate 
overcoming of evil and sorrow by good and joy, the end 
of all art being pleasure, — whatsoever things are lovely 
first, and things that are true and of good report after- 


Author’s Preface. 


XI 


wards in their turn, — still there is a pleasure, one of the 
strangest and strongest in our nature, in imaginative suf- 
fering with and for others, — 

“ In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; ” 

for sympathy is worth nothing, is, indeed, not itself, unless 
it has in it somewhat of personal pain. It is the hereafter 
that gives to — 

. the touch of a vanish’d hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is still,” 

its own infinite meaning. Our hearts and our understand- 
ings follow Ailie and her “ain man” into that world where 
there is no pain, where no one says, “ I am sick.” What 
is all the philosophy of Cicero, the wailing of Catullus, 
and the gloomy playfulness of Horace’s variations on 
“Let us eat and drink,” with its terrific' “for,” to the 
simple faith of the carrier and his wife in “ I am the 
Resurrection and the Life ” } 

I think I can hear from across the fields of sleep and 
other years Ailie’s sweet, dim, wandering voice trying to 
say,— 

‘‘Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, 

She was baith gude and fair, John, 

And we grudged her sair, John, 

To the land o’ the leal.” 

“But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, 

The joys are cornin’ fast, John, 

The joys that aye shall last, John, 

In the land o’ the leal.” 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Rab and his Friends i 

Our Dogs 20 

More of “ our Dogs ” 53 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


James and his Burden . . . . . 

Rab 

His Companions ...... 

The Pinch of Snuff . . . . . 

“ The morning light touching the Pentlands ” 
Jess in her Stable ....... 

Rab’s Grave 

Our Dogs 

Toby 

“ Put his forelegs on the pulpit ” . 

Wylie 

“ I wull if ye’ll be gude to her ” . . , 

Rab 

Wasp 

“ Holding up her burden ” . . . . 

Jock . . . . . 

“ Took to evil courses ” . 

Dudric 

“Trying to coax her dear little ruffian” . 

John Pirn 

Puck 

“ Purloiner of eggs 

Dick the First 

More of our Dogs 

Bob . . . 

“ They bore down upon Bob and his master ” 

Tailpiece 

xii 


Frontispiece 

Title-page 


4 

16 

• 17 

. 18 

20 
. 22 

. 26 

• 30 

• 32 

• 36 

• 39 

. 41 

• 43 

. 44 

• 45 

. 46 

. 48 

• 49 

• 50 

• 51 

• 53 

• 55 

• 57 

. 58 



His Companions. 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Four-and-thirty years ago Bob Ainslie and I were 
coming up Infirmary Street from the High School, our 
heads together and our arms intertwisted, as only lovers 
and boys know how or why. 

When we got to the top of the street and turned north, 
we espied a crowd at the Tron Church. “A dog-fight!” 
shouted Bob, and was off ; and so was I, both of us all 
but praying that it might not be over before we got up I 
And is not this boy nature ? and human nature, too ? and 
don’t we all wish a house on fire not to be out before we 
see it ? Dogs like fighting ; old Isaac says they “ delight ” 

old Isaac: Dr. Isaac Watts, in his “Divine and Moral Songs for Chil- 
dren” (1715), writes: — 

“ Let dogs delight to bark and bite. 

For ’tis their nature to.” 


I 


2 


Rab and his Friends. 


in it, and for the best of all reasons; and boys are not 
cruel because they like to see the fight. They see three 
of the great cardinal virtues of dog or man — courage, 
endurance, and skill — in intense action. This is very 
different from a love of making dogs fight, and enjoying, 
and aggravating, and making gain by their pluck. A boy 
— be he ever so fond himself of fighting, if he be a good 
boy, hates and despises all this, but he would have run off 
with Bob and me fast enough : it is a natural and a not 
wicked interest, that all boys and men have in witne'ssing 
intense energy in action. 

Does any curious and finely ignorant woman wish to 
know how Bob’s eye at a glance announced a dog-fight to 
his brain .? He did not, he could not see the dogs fight- 
ing ; it was a flash of an inference, a rapid induction. 
The crowd round a couple of dogs fighting is a crowd 
masculine mainly, with an occasional active, compassionate 
woman, fluttering wildly round the outside, and using her 
tongue and her hands freely upon the men, as so many 
“ brutes ” ; it is a crowd annular, compact, and mobile ; a 
crowd centripetal, having its eyes and its heads all bent 
downwards and inwards, to one common focus. 

Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over ; a small 
thoroughbred white bull terrier is busy throttling a large 
shepherd’s dog, unaccustomed to war, but not to be trifled 
with. They are hard at it ; the scientific little fellow 
doing his work in great style, his pastoral enemy fighting 
wildly, but with the sharpest of teeth and great courage. 
Science and breeding, however, soon had their own ; the 
Game Chicken, as the premature Bob called him, working 
his way up, took his final grip of poor Yarrow’s throat, 
and he lay gasping and done for. His master, a brown, 
handsome, big young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, would 


Rab and his Friends. 


3 


have liked to have knocked down any man, would “ drink 
up Esil, or eat a crocodile,” for that part, if he had a 
chance ; it was no use kicking the little dog ; that would 
only make him hold the closer. Many were the means 
shouted out in mouthfuls, of the best possible ways of 
ending it. “Water! ” but there was none near, and many 
cried for it who might have got it from the well at Black- 
friars Wynd. “ Bite the tail 1 ” and a large, vague, be- 
nevolent, middle-aged man, more desirous than wise, with 
some struggle got the bushy end of Yarrow’s tail into his 
ample mouth, and bit it with all his might. This was 
more than enough for the much-enduring, much-perspiring 
shepherd, who, with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, 
delivered a terrific facer upon our large, vague, benevo- 
lent, middle-aged friend, — who went down like a shot. 

Still the Chicken holds ; death not far off. “ Snuff ! a 
pinch of snuff I ” observed a calm, highly dressed young 
buck, with an eyeglass in his eye. “ Snuff, indeed I ” 
growled the angry crowd, affronted and glaring. “ Snuff I 
a pinch of snuff!” again observes the buck, but with 
more urgency ; whereon were produced several open 
boxes, and from a mull which may have been at Culloden 
he took a pinch, knelt down, and presented it to the nose 
of the Chicken. The laws of physiology and of snuff 
take their course ; the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free. 

The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in his 
arms, — comforting him. 

But the Bull Terrier’s blood is up, and his soul unsatis- 
fied ; he grips the first dog he meets, . . . but soon lets go, 

Esil: vinegar. Wynd: a narrow lane. 

Culloden: The battle fought between the English and the Scotch in 1746, 
which put an end to the Scottish rebellion. It was the last effort of civil war 
in England. 



The Pinch of Snuff. 




Rab and his Friends. 


s 


makes a brief sort of apology, and is off. The boys, with 
Bob and me at their head, .are after him : down Niddry 
Street he goes, bent on mischief ; up the Cowgate like an 
arrow — Bob and I, and our small men, panting behind. 

There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, is a 
huge mastiff, sauntering down the middle of the cause- 
way, as if with his hands in his pockets ; he is old, gray, 
brindled, as big as a little Highland bull, and has the 
Shaksperian dewlaps shaking as he goes. 

The Chicken makes straight at him and fastens on his 
throat. To our astonishment, the great creature does 
nothing but stand still, hold himself up, and roar, — yes, 
roar ; a long, serious, remonstrative roar. How is this ? 
Bob and I are up to them. He is mttzzled ! The bailies 
had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, study- 
ing strength and economy mainly, had encompassed his 
huge jaws in a home-made apparatus, constructed out of the 
leather of some ancient breechin. His mouth was open as 
far as it could ; his lips curled up in rage — a sort of terri- 
ble grin ; his teeth gleaming, ready, from out the dark- 
ness ; the strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring ; 
his whole frame stiff with indignation and surprise ; his 
roar asking us all round, “ Did you ever see the like of 
this ? ” He looked a statue of anger and astonishment, 
done in Aberdeen granite. 

We soon had a crowd ; the Chicken held on. “A 
knife!’' cried Bob; and a cobbler gave him his knife: 
you know the kind of knife, worn away obliquely to a 
point, and always keen. I put its edge to the tense 
leather; it ran before it; and then I — one sudden jerk of 

Shaksperian dewlaps : See “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act, IV, Scene 
I, line 127. 

breechin : part of the harness of a horse. 


6 


Rab and his Friends. 


that enormous head, a sort of dirty mist about his mouth, 
no noise, — and the bright and fierce little fellow is 
dropped, limp and dead. A solemn pause : this was 
more than any of us had bargained for. I turned the 
little fellow over and saw he was quite dead ; the mastiff 
had taken him by the small of the back, like a rat, and 
broken it. 

He looked down at his victim appeased, ashamed, and 
amazed ; snuffed him all over, stared at him, and taking a 
sudden thought, turned round and trotted off. Bob took 
the dead dog up, and said, “John, we’ll bury him after 
tea.” “ Yes,” said I, and was off after the mastiff. He 
made up the Cowgate at a rapid swing ; he had forgotten 
some engagement. He turned up the Candlemaker Row 
and stopped at the Harrow Inn. 

There was a carrier’s cart ready to start, and a keen, 
thin, impatient, black-a-vised little man, his hand at his 
gray horse’s head, looking about angrily for something. 
“ Rab, ye thief ! ” said he, aiming a kick at my great 
friend, who drew cringing up, and avoiding the heavy 
shoe with more agility than dignity, and watching his 
master’s eye, slunk dismayed under the cart, — his ears 
down, and as much as he had of tail down, too. 

What a man this must be — thought I — to whom my 
tremendous hero turns tail ! The carrier saw the muzzle 
hanging, cut and useless, from his neck, and I eagerly told 
him the story, which Bob and I always thought, and still 
think, Homer, or King David, or Sir Walter, alone were 
worthy to rehearse. The severe little man was mitigated, 
and condescended to say, “ Rab, ma man, puir Rabbie,” — 
whereupon the stump of a tail rose up, the ears were 
cocked, the eyes filled, and were comforted ; the two 

puir : poor. 


ma : my. 


Rab and his Friends. 


7 

friends were reconciled. “ Hupp ! ” and a stroke of the 
whip were given to Jess, and off went the three. 

Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night (we had 
not much of a tea) in the back-green of his house in Mel- 
ville Street, No. 17, with considerable gravity and silence; 
and being at the time in the Iliad, and, like all boys, 
Trojans, we of course called him Hector. 


Six years have passed — a long time for a boy and a 
dog ; Bob Ainslie is off to the wars ; I am a medical 
student, and clerk at Minto House Hospital. 

Rab I saw almost every week on the Wednesday ; and we 
had much pleasant intimacy. I found the way to his heart 
by frequent scratching of his huge head, and an occasional 
bone. When I did not notice him, he would plant himself 
straight before me and stand wagging that bud of a tail, 
and looking up, with his head a little to the one side. His 
master I occasionally saw ; he used to call me “ Maister 
John,” but was laconic as any Spartan. 

One fine October afternoon I was leaving the hospital, 
when I saw the large gate open, and in walked Rab, with 
that great and easy saunter of his. He looked as if taking 
general possession of the place ; like the Duke of Wel- 
lington entering a subdued city, satiated with victory and 
peace. After him came Jess, now white from age, with 
her cart; and in it a woman, carefully wrapped up, — the 
carrier leading the horse anxiously, and looking back. 
When he saw me, James (for his name was James Noble) 
made a curt and grotesque “ boo,” and said, “ Maister 


boo : bow. 


8 


Rab and his Friends. 


John, this is the mistress ; she’s got a trouble in her side — 
some kind o’ an income we’re thinkin’.” 

By this time 1 saw the woman’s face ; she was sitting 
on a sack filled with straw, her husband’s plaid round 
her, and his big-coat, with its large white metal buttons, 
over her feet. 

I never saw a more unforgetable face — pale, serious, 
lonely} delicate, sweet, without being at all what we call 
fine. She looked sixty, and had on a mutch, white as 
snow, with its black ribbon ; her silvery, smooth hair set- 
ting off her dark gray eyes — eyes such as one sees only 
twice or thrice in a lifetime, full of suffering, full also of 
the overcoming of it ; her eyebrows black and delicate, 
and her mouth firm, patient, and contented, which few 
mouths ever are. 

As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful counte- 
nance, or one more subdued to settled quiet. “Ailie,” 
said James, “ this is Maister John, the young doctor — Rab’s 
freend, ye ken. We often speak aboot you, doctor.” She 
smiled and made a movement, but said nothing, and pre- 
pared to come down, putting her plaid aside and rising. 
Had Solomon, in all his glory, been handing down the 
Queen of Sheba at his palace gate, he could not have done 
it more daintily, more tenderly, more like a gentleman, 
than did James the Howgate carrier, when he lifted down 
Ailie his wife. The contrast of his small, swarthy, weather- 
beaten, keen, worldly face to hers — pale, subdued, and 
beautiful — was something wonderful. Rab looked on 
concerned and puzzled, but ready for anything that might 
turn up, — were it to strangle the nurse, the porter, or even 
me ; Ailie and he seemed great friends. 

1 It is not easy giving this look by one word ; it was expressive of her 
being so much of her life alone. mulch : a cap. 


Rab and his Friends. 


9 

“ As I was sayin’, she’s got a kind o’ trouble in her side, 
doctor ; wull ye tak’ a look at it ? ” . . . 

I got her away to bed. 

“ May Rab and me bide ? ” said James. 

Vou may ; and Rab, if he will behave himself.” 

“ I’se warrant he’s do that, doctor;” and in slunk the 
faithful beast. I wish you could have seen him. There 
are no such dogs now. He belonged to a lost tribe. As 
I have said, he was brindled, and gray like Rubislaw gran- 
ite ; his hair short, hard, and close, like a lion’s ; his body 
thick set, like a little bull — a sort of compressed Hercules 
of a dog. He must have been ninety pounds’ weight, at 
the least ; he had a large blunt head ; his muzzle black 
as night, his mouth blacker than any night, a tooth or two 
— being all he had — gleaming out of his jaws of darkness. 
His head was scarred with the records of ‘old wounds, a 
sort of series of fields of battle all over it ; one eye out, 
one ear cropped as close as was Archbishop Leighton’s 
father’s ; the remaining eye had the power of two ; and 
above it, and in constant communication with it, was a 
tattered rag of an ear, which was forever unfurling itself, 
like an old flag; and then that bud of a tail, about one 
inch long, if it could in any sense be said to be long, being 
as broad as long — the mobility, the instantaneousness of 
that bud were very funny and surprising, and its expressive 
twinklings and winkings, the intercommunications between 
the eye, the ear, and it, were of the oddest and swiftest. 

Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size ; and 
having fought his way all along the road to absolute 
supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius 

Archbishop Leighton's father : Dr. Alex. Leighton (b. 1568, d. 1649), a 
Presbyterian minister, who was mutilated and branded by order of Archbishop 
Laud for publishing a work against the Priesthood. 


lO 


Rab and his Friends. 


Caesar or the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity ^ of 
all great fighters. 

You must have often observed the likeness of certain 
men to certain animals and of certain dogs to men. Now, 
I never looked at Rab without thinking of the great Bap- 
tist preacher, Andrew Fuller.^ The same large, heavy, 
menacing, combative, sombre, honest countenance, the 
same deep inevitable eye, the same look, as of thunder 
asleep, but ready, — neither a dog nor a man to be trifled 
with. 

Next day, my master, the surgeon, examined Ailie. 
There was no doubt the disease must kill her, and soon. 
It could be removed — it might never return — it would 
give her speedy relief — she should have it done. . . . 

The surgeon did his work. It is over : she is dressed, 
steps gently down from the table, looks for James; then, 
turning to the surgeon and the students she courtesies, — 
and in a low, clear voice, begs their pardon if she has be- 
haved ill. The students — all of us — wept like children ; 
the surgeon happed her up carefully, and, resting on 
James and me, Ailie went to her room, Rab following. 

1 A Highland game-keeper, when asked why a certain terrier, of singular 
pluck, was so much more solemn than the other dogs, said, “ Oh, sir, life’s full 
o’ sairiousness to him — he just never can get enuff o’ fechtin’.” 

2 Fuller was, in early life, when a farmer lad at Soham, famous as a boxer; 
not quarrelsome, but not without “ the stern delight ” a man of strength and 
courage feels in their exercise. Dr. Charles Stewart, of Dunearn, whose rare 
gifts and graces as a physician, a divine, a scholar, and a gentleman, live only 
in the memory of those few who knew and survive him, liked to tell how Mr. 
Fuller used to say, that when he was in the pulpit, and saw a Iniirdly man 
come along the passage, he would instinctively draw himself up, measure his 
imaginary antagonist, and forecast how he would deal with him, his hands 
meanwhile condensing into fists, and tending to “ square.” He must have 
been a hard hitter if he boxed as he preached — what “The Fancy” would 
call “ an ugly customer.” 

buirdly : strong, stalwart, well built. 


Rab and his Friends. 


1 1 

We put her to bed. James took off his heavy shoes, 
crammed with tackets, heel-capt and toe-capt, and put them 
carefully under the table, saying, “ Maister John, Fm for 
nane o’ yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailie. I’ll be her 
nurse, and I’ll gang aboot on my stockin’ soles as canny 
as pussy.” 

And so he did ; and handy and clever, and swift and 
tender as any woman, was that horny-handed, snell, per- 
emptory little man. Everything she got he gave her; 
he seldom slept ; and often I saw his small shrewd eyes 
out of the darkness, fixed on her. As before, they spoke 
little. 

Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how meek 
and gentle he could be, and occasionally, in his sleep, let- 
ting us know that he was demolishing some adversary. 
He took a walk with me every day generally to the Candle- 
maker Row ; but he was sombre and mild ; declined doing 
battle, though some fit cases offered, and indeed submitted 
to sundry indignities ; and was always very ready to turn, 
and came faster back, and trotted up the stair with much 
lightness, and went straight to that door. 

Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather-worn 
cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own dim and 
placid meditations and confusions, on the absence of her 
master and Rab, and her unnatural freedom from the road 
and her cart. 

For some days Ailie did well. . . . The students came 
in quiet and anxious, and surrounded her bed. She said 
she liked to see their young, honest faces. The surgeon 
dressed her, and spoke to her in his own short kind way, 
pitying her through his eyes, Rab and James outside the 
circle, — Rab being now reconciled, and even cordial, and 

canny: knowing, but gentle. snell: active, brisk. 


12 


Rab and his Friends. 


having made up his mind that as yet nobody required 
worrying, but, as you may suppose, sernper parattis. 

So far well : but, four days after the operation, my 
patient had a sudden and long shivering, a “ groosin’,” as 
she called it. I saw her soon after ; her eyes were too 
bright, her cheek colored ; she was restless, and ashamed 
of being so ; the balance was lost ; mischief had begun, 

. . . her pulse was rapid, her breathing anxious and quick, 
she wasn’t herself, as she said, and was vexed at her rest- 
lessness. We tried what we could. James did everything, 
was everywhere ; never in the way, never out of it ; Rab 
subsided under the table into a dark place, and was motion- 
less, all but his eye, which followed every one. Ailie got 
worse ; began to wander in her mind, gently ; was more 
demonstrative in her ways to James, rapid in her questions, 
and sharp at times. He was vexed, and said, “ She was 
never that way afore ; no, never.” For a time she knew 
her head was wrong and was always asking our pardon — 
the dear, gentle old woman ; then delirium set in strong, 
without pause. Her brain gave way, and then came that 
terrible spectacle, — 

“ The intellectual power, through words and things, 

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ; ” 

she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping suddenly, 
mingling the Psalms of David, and the diviner words of 
his Son and Lord, with homely odds and ends and scraps 
of ballads. 

Nothing more touching, or in a sense more strangely 
beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremulous, rapid, affec- 
tionate, eager, Scotch voice, — the swift, aimless, bewil- 
dered mind, the baffled utterance, the bright and perilous 


semper paratus : always prepared. 


Rab and his Friends. 


13 

eye ; some wild words, some household cares, something 
for James, the names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and 
in a “ fremyt ” voice, and he, starting up, surprised, and 
slinking off as if he were to blame somehow, or had been 
dreaming he heard. Many eager questions and beseech- 
ings, which James and I could make nothing of, and on 
which she seemed to set her all, and then sink back un- 
understood. It was very sad, but better than many things 
that are not called sad. James hovered about, put out and 
miserable, but active and exact as ever ; read to her, when 
there was a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose, and 
metre, chanting the latter in his own rude and serious way, 
showing great knowledge of the fit words, bearing up like 
a man, and doting over her as his “ain Ailie.” “Ailie, 
ma woman ! ” “ Ma ain bonnie wee dawtie ! ” 

The end was drawing on : the golden bowl was break- 
ing ; the silver chord was fast being loosed — her gentle 
spirit was about to flee. The body and the soul — com- 
panions for sixty years — were being sundered and taking 
leave. She was walking, alone, through the valley of that 
shadow into which one day we must all enter, — and yet 
she was not alone, for we know whose rod and staff were 
comforting her. .... 

This was the close. She sank rapidly ; the delirium left 
her; but, as she whispered, she was “ clean silly ; it was 
the lightening before the final darkness. After having for 
some time lain still — her eyes shut, she said, “James!” 
He came close to her, and lifting up her calm, clear, beau- 
tiful eyes, she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly, 
but shortly, looked for Rab, but could not see him, then 
turned to her husband again, as if she would never leave 
off looking, shut her eyes, and composed herself. She 

fremyt : strange, unfamiliar. dawtie : darling, favorite. 


4 


Rab and his Friends. 


lay for some time breathing quick, and passed away so 
gently, that when we thought she was gone, James, in his 
old-fashioned way, held the mirror to her face. After a 
long pause one small spot of dimness was breathed out ; 
it vanished away, and never returned, leaving the blank 
clear darkness of the mirror without a stain. “ What is 
our life.-* it is even a vapor, which appeareth for a little 
time, and then vanisheth away.” 

Rab all this time had been full awake and motionless ; 
he came forward beside us : Aide’s hand, which James had 
held, was hanging down; it was soaked with his tears; 
Rab licked it all over carefully, looked at her, and re- 
turned to his place under the table. 

James and I sat, I don’t know how long, but for some 
time, — saying nothing ; he started up abruptly, and with 
some noise went to the table, and putting his right fore 
and middle fingers each into a shoe, pulled them out and 
put them on, breaking one of the leather latchets, and 
muttering in anger, “I never did the like o’ that afore!” 

I believe he never did ; nor after, either. “ Rab ! ” he 
said roughly, and pointing with his thumb to the bottom 
of the bed. Rab leapt up, and settled himself ; his head 
and eyes to the dead face. “ Maister John, ye’ll wait for 
me,” said the carrier, and disappeared in the darkness, 
thundering downstairs in his heavy shoes. I ran to a 
front window ; there he was, already round the house and 
out at the gate, fleeing like a shadow. 

I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid ; so I sat 
down beside Rab, and being wearied, fell asleep. I awoke 
from a sudden noise outside. It was November, and there 
had been a heavy fall of snow. Rab was in static quo ; he 
heard the noise, too, and plainly knew it, but never moved. 
in statu quo : as he was before, 


Rab and his Friends. 


15 


I looked out ; and there, at the gate, in the dim morning 

— for the sun was not up — was Jess and the cart, a cloud 
of steam rising from the old mare. I did not see James; 
he was already at the door, and came up the stairs and 
met me. It was less than three hours since he left, and 
he must have posted out — who knows how? — to How- 
gate, full nine miles off, yoked Jess, and driven her, aston- 
ished, into town. He had an armful of blankets, and was 
streaming with perspiration. He nodded to me, spread 
out on - the floor two pairs of clean old blankets, having at 
their corners, “ A. G., 1796,” in large letters in red worsted. 
These were the initials of Alison Graeme; and James may 
have looked in at her from without — himself unseen but 
not unthought of — when he was “ wat, wat, and weary,” 
and after having walked many a mile over the hills, may 
have seen her sitting, while “a’ the lave were sleepin’,” 
and by the fire-light working her name on the blankets, 
for her ain James’s bed. 

He motioned Rab down, and taking his wife in his arms, 
laid her in the blankets, and happed her carefully and 
firmly up, leaving the face uncovered ; and then lifting 
her, he nodded again sharply to me, a,nd with a resolved 
but utterly miserable face, strode along the passage, and 
downstairs, followed by Rab. I followed with a light; 
but he didn’t need it. I went out, holding stupidly the 
candle in my hand in the calm frosty air; we were soon 
at the gate. I could have helped him, but I saw he was 
not to be meddled with, and he was strong, and did not 
need it. He laid her down as tenderly, as safely, as he 
had lifted her out ten days before — as tenderly as when 
he had her first in his arms, when she was only “A. G.,” 

— sorted her, leaving that beautiful sealed face open to 

the lave : the rest. sorted her : arranged her. 


i6 


Rab and his Friends. 


the heavens; and then taking Jess by the head, he moved 
away. He did not notice me, neither did Rab, who pre- 
sided behind the cart. 

I stood till they passed through the long shadow of the 
College, and turned up Nicolson Street. I heard the 
solitary cart sound through the streets, and die away and 
come again ; and I returned, thinking of that company 
going up Libberton Brae, then along Roslin Muir, the 



“ The Morning Light touching the Pentlands.” 


morning light touching the Pentlands and making them 
like on-looking ghosts ; then down the hill through Auch- 
indinny woods, past “ haunted Woodhouselee ” ; and as 
daybreak came sweeping up the bleak Lammermuirs, and 
fell on his own door, the company would stop, and James 
would take the key, and lift Ailie up again, laying her on 
her own bed, and, having put Jess up, would return with 
Rab and shut the door. 

James buried his wife, with his neighbors mourning, 
Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. It was 
snow, and that black, ragged hole would look strange in 



Rab and his Friends. 17 

the midst of the swelling spotless cushion of white. James 
looked after everything ; then rather suddenly fell ill, and 
took to bed ; was insensible when the doctor came, and 
soon died. A sort of low fever was prevailing in the 
village, and his want of sleep, his exhaustion, and his 


JES3 IN HER Stable. 

misery, made him apt to take it. The grave was not diffi- 
cult to reopen. A fresh fall of snow had again made all 
things white and smooth ; Rab once more looked on, and 
slunk home to the stable. 

And what of Rab ? I asked for him next week at the 
new carrier’s who got the goodwill of James’s business, and 
was now master of Jess and her cart. “ How’s Rab ” 


i8 


Rab and his Friends. 


He put me off, and said rather rudely, “ What’s busi- 
ness wi’ the dowg ? ” I was not to be so put off. “ Where’s 
Rab ? ” He, getting confused and red, and intermeddling 
with his hair, said, “ ’Deed, sir, Rab’s deed.” “ Dead ! 
what did he die of? ” “ Weel, sir,” said he, getting redder, 
“ he didna exactly dee ; he was killed. I had to brain him 



Rab's Grave. 


wi’ a rack-pin ; there was nae doin’ wi’ him. He lay in 
the treviss wi’ the mear, and wadna come oot. I tempit 
him wi’ kail and meat, but he wad tak’ naething, and keepit 
me frae feedin’ the beast, and he was aye gur gurrin’, and 
grup gruppin’ me by the legs. I was laith to make awa’ 
wi’ the auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and Thorn- 
hill, — but, ’deed, sir, I could do naething else.” I be- 
lieved him. Fit end for Rab, quick and complete. His 


treviss : the horse’s stall. 


mear : mare. 


kail: cabbage. 


Rab and his Friends. 


19 

teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace, 
and be civil ? 

He was buried in the braeface, near the burn, the 
children of the village, his companions, who used to 
make very free with him and sit on his ample stomach, 
as he lay half asleep at the door in the sun, watching 
the solemnity. 



“The misery of keeping a dog, is his dying so soon ; but to be sure, if 
he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?” 

— Sir Walter Scott. 

“ There is in every animars eye a dim image and gleam of humanity, 
a flash of strange light through which their life looks out and up to our 
great mystery of command over them, and claims the fellowship of the 
creature, if not of the soul.” — Ruskin. 

I WAS bitten severely by a little dog when with my 
mother at Moffat Wells, being then three years of age, and 
I have remained “ bitten ” ever since, in the matter of dogs. 
I remember that little dog, and can at this moment not only 
recall my pain and terror — I have no doubt I was to 
blame — but also her face ; and were I allowed to search 
among the shades in the. cynic Elysian fields, I could pick 

Elysian fields: The land of the blest, to which the favored of the gods 
passed without the pain of death. 


20 


Our Dogs. 


21 


her out still. All my life I have been familiar with these 
faithful creatures, making friends of them, and speaking 
to them ; and the only time I ever addressed the public, 
about a year after being bitten, was at the farm of Kirk- 
law Hill, near Biggar, when the text, given out from an 
empty cart in which the ploughmen had placed me, was 
^‘Ja-cob’s dog,” and my entire sermon was as follows: 
“Some say that Jacob had a black dog (the o very 
long), and some say that Jacob had a white dog, but I 
(imagine the presumption of four years!) say Jacob had a 
brown dog, and a brown dog it shall be.” 

I had many intimacies from this time onwards — Bawtie, 
of the inn ; Keeper, the carrier’s bull-terrier ; Tiger, a huge 
tawny mastiff from Edinburgh, which I think muk have 
been an uncle of Rab’s ; all the sheep dogs at Callands — 
Spring, Mavis, Yarrow, Swallow, Cheviot, fete. ; but it was 
not till I was at College, and my brother at the High 
School, that we possessed a dog. 


» 



Was the most utterly shabby, vulgar, mean-looking cur 
I ever beheld : in one word, a tyke. He had not one good 
feature except his teeth and eyes, and his bark, if that can 
be called a feature. He was not ugly enough to be inter- 
esting ; his color, black and white, his shape, leggy and 
clumsy ; altogether what Sydney Smith would have called 
an extraordinarily ordinary dog; and, as I have said, not 
even greatly ugly, or, as the Aberdonians have it, bo7tnie 
wi ill-fauredness. My brother William found him the 
centre of attraction to a multitude of small blackguards, 
who were drowning him slowly in Lochend Loch, doing 
their best to lengthen out the process, and secure the 
greatest amount of fun with the nearest approach to death. 
Even then Toby showed his great intellect by pretending 
to be dead, and thus gaining time and an inspiration. 
William bought him for twopence, and as he had it not, 
the boys accompanied him to Pilrig Street, when I 
happened to meet him, and giving the twopence to the 
biggest boy, had the satisfaction of seeing a general 
engagement of much severity, during which the twopence 
disappeared ; one penny going off with a very small and 
swift boy, and the other vanishing hopelessly into the grating 
of a drain. 

bonnie wV ill-fauredness : his very ugliness made him good looking. 

22 


1 


Toby was for weeks in the house unbeknown to any one 
but ourselves two and the cook, and from my grand- 
mother’s love of tidiness and hatred of dogs and of dirt, 
I believe she would have expelled “him whom we saved 
from drowning,” had not he, in his straightforward way, 
walked into my father’s bedroom one night when he was 
bathing his feet, and introduced himself with a wag of his 
tail, intimating a general willingness to be happy. My 
father laughed most heartily, and at last Toby, having got 
his way to his bare feet, and having begun to lick his soles 
and between his toes with his small rough tongue, my 
father gave such an unwonted shout of laughter, that we — 
grandmother, sisters, and all of us — went in. Grand- 
mother might argue with all her energy and skill, but . . . 
Toby’s tongue and fun proved too many for grandmother’s 
eloquence. I somehow think Toby must have been up to 
all this, for I think he had a peculiar love for my father 
ever after, and regarded grandmother from that hour with 
a careful and cool eye. 

Toby, when full grown, was a strong, coarse dog, coarse 
in shape, in countenance, in hair, and in manner. I used 
to think that, according to the Pythagorean doctrine, he 
must have been, or been going to be, a Gilmerton carter. 
He was of the bull-terrier variety, coarsened through much 
mongrelism and a dubious and varied ancestry. His teeth 
were good, and he had a large skull, and a rich bark, as of 
a dog three times his size, and a tail which I never saw 
equalled — indeed, it was a tail per se y it was of immense 
girth, and not short, equal throughout, like a policeman’s 
baton ; the machinery for working it was of great power, 
and acted in a way, as far as I have been able to discover, 
quite original. We called it his ruler. 

per se : by itself. 


24 


Our Dogs. 


When he wished to get into the house, he first whined 
gently, then growled, then gave a sharp bark, and then 
came a resounding, mighty stroke which shook the house ; 
this, after much study and watching, we found was done 
by his bringing the entire length of his solid tail flat upon 
the door, with a sudden and vigorous stroke. ... He 
was perfect in it at once, his first bang authoritative, hav- 
ing been as masterly and telling as his last. 

With all this inbred, vulgar air, he was a dog of great 
moral excellence — affectionate, faithful, honest up to his 
light, with an odd humor as peculiar and as strong as his 
tail. My father, in his reserved way, was very fond of 
him, and there must have been very funny scenes with 
them, for we heard bursts of laughter issuing from his 
study when they two were by themselves ; there was some- 
thing in him that took that grave, beautiful, melancholy 
face. One can fancy him in the midst of his books, and 
sacred work and thoughts, pausing and looking at the 
secular Toby, who was looking out for a smile to begin his 
rough fun, and about to end by coursing and gurrin' round 
the room, upsetting my father’s books, laid out on the floor 
for consultation, and himself nearly, at times, as he stood 
watching him — and off his guard and shaking with laugh- 
ter. Toby had always a great desire to accompany my 
father up to town; this my father’s good taste and sense 
of dignity, besides his fear of losing his friend (a vain 
fear !) forbade, and as the decision of character of each 
was great and nearly equal, it was often a drawn game. 
Toby ultimately, by making it his entire object, triumphed. 
He usually was nowhere to be seen on my father leaving; 
he, however, saw him, and lay in wait at the head of the 

my father: The author’s father, John Brown, D.D. (1784-1858), was a 
famous theologian. He published about twenty religious works, was a saintly, 
learned man, and passionately fond of riding. 


Toby. 


25 


street, and up Leith Walk he kept him in view from the 
opposite side, like a detective, and then, when he knew it 
was hopeless to hound him home, he crossed unblushingly 
over, and joined company, excessively rejoiced, of course. 

One Sunday he had gone with him to church, and left 
him at the vestry door. The second psalm was given out, 
and my father was sitting back in the pulpit, when the 
door at its back, up which he came from the vestry, was 
seen to move and gently open ; then, after a long pause, a 
black shining snout pushed its way steadily into the con- 
gregation, and was followed by Toby’s entire body. He 
looked somewhat abashed, but snuffing his friend, he ad- 
vanced as if on thin ice, and not seeing him, put his fore- 
legs on the pulpit, and behold, there he was, his own familiar 
chum. I watched all this, and anything more beautiful than 
his look of happiness, of comfort, of entire ease, when he 
beheld his friend, — the smoothing down of the anxious ears, 
the swing of gladness of that mighty tail, — I don’t expect 
soon to see. My father quietly opened the door, and Toby 
was at his feet, and invisible to all but himself ; had he 
sent old George Peastan, the “minister’s man,” to put him 
out, Toby would probably have shown his teeth, and aston- 
ished George. He slunk home as soon as he could, and 
never repeated that exploit. 

I never saw in any other dog the sudden transition from 
discretion, not to say abject cowardice, to blazing and per- 
manent valor. From his earliest years he showed a 
general meanness of blood, inherited from many genera- 
tions of starved, bekicked, and down-trodden forefathers 
and mothers, resulting in a condition of intense abjectness 
in all matters of personal fear; anybody, even a beggar, 
^ by a gowl and a threat of eye, could send him off howling 

gowl : howl. 




Toby. 


27 


by anticipation, with that mighty tail between his legs. 
But it was not always so to be, and I had the privilege of 
seeing courage, reasonable, absolute, and for life, spring up 
in Toby at once. ... It happened thus: — 

Toby was in the way of hiding his culinary bones in the 
small gardens before his own and the neighboring doors. 
Mr. Scrymgeour, two doors off, a bulky, choleric, red- 
haired, red-faced man of scowling mien, was, by the law 
of contrast, a great cultivator of flowers, and he had often 
scowled Toby into all but non-existence by a stamp of his 
foot and a glare of his eye. One day his gate being 
open, in walks Toby with a huge bone, and making a hole 
where Scrymgeour had two minutes before been planting 
some precious slip, the name of which on paper and on a 
stick Toby made very light of, substituted his bone, and 
was engaged covering it, or thinking he was covering it 
up with his shovelling nose (a very odd relic of paradise 
in the dog), when S. spied him through the inner glass 
door, and was out upon him like the Assyrian, with a 
terrific gowl. I watched them. Instantly Toby made 
straight at him with a roar, too, and an eye more scowling 
than Scrymgeour’s, who, retreating without reserve, fell 
prostrate, there is reason to believe, in his own lobby. 
Toby contented himself with proclaiming his victory at 
the door, and returning, finished his bone-planting at his 
leisure ; the enemy, who had scuttled behind the glass 
door, glaring at him. 

From this moment Toby was an altered dog. Pluck at 
first sight was lord of all ; from that time dated his first 
tremendous deliverance of tail against the door, which we 
called, “ Come listen to my tail.” That very evening he 

the Assyrian : Refers to Lord Byron’s line : — 

“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.” 


28 


Our Dogs. 


paid a visit to Leo, next door’s dog, a big, tyrannical bully 
and coward, which its master thought a Newfoundland, 
but whose pedigree we knew better ; this brute continued 
the same system of chronic extermination which was inter- 
rupted at Lochend, — having Toby down among his feet, 
and threatening him with instant death, two or three times 
a day. To him Toby paid a visit that very evening, down 
into his den, and walked about as much as to say, “ Come 
on, Macduff ! ” but Macduff did not come on, and hence- 
forward there was an armed neutrality, and they merely 
stiffened up and made their backs rigid, pretended 
each not to see the other, walking solemnly round, as is 
the manner of dogs. Toby worked his new-found faculty 
thoroughly, but with discretion. He killed cats, aston- 
ished beggars, kept his own in his own garden against all 
comers, and came off victorious in several well-fought 
battles ; but he was not quarrelsome or foolhardy. It was 
very odd how his carriage changed, holding his head up, 
and how much pleasanter he was at home. To my father, 
next to William, who was his Humane Society man, he re- 
mained stanch. . . . And what of his end ? for the misery 
of dogs is that they die so soon : or, as Sir Walter says, it 
is well they do ; for if they lived as long as a Christian, 
and we liked them in proportion, and they then died, he 
said that was a thing he could not stand. 

His exit was miserable, and had a strange poetic or 
tragic relation to his entrance. My father was out of 
town ; I was away in England. Whether it was that 
the absence of my father had relaxed his power of moral 
restraint, or whether through neglect of the servant he had 
been desperately hungry, or most likely both being true, 
Toby was discovered with the remains of a cold leg of mut- 
ton, on which he had made an ample meal ; this he was, in 


Toby. 


29 


vain, endeavoring to plant, as of old, in the hope of its 
remaining undiscovered till to-morrow’s hunger returned, 
the whole shank bone sticking up unmistakably. This 
was seen by our excellent and Rhadamanthine grand- 
mother, who pronounced sentence on the instant ; and 
next day, as William was leaving for the High School, did 
he in the sour morning, through an easterly hatir^ behold 
him “whom he saved from drowning,” and whom, with 
better results than in the case of Launce and Crab, he had 
taught, as if one should say, “ Thus would I teach a dog,” 
— dangling by his own chain from his own lamp-post, one 
of his hind feet just touching the pavement, and his body 
preternaturally elongated. 

William found him dead and warm, and falling in with 
the milk-boy at the head of the street, questioned him, and 
discovered that he was the executioner, and had got two- 
pence ; he — Toby’s every morning crony, who met him and 
accompanied him up the street, and licked the outside of 
his can — had, with an eye to speed and convenience, and 
a want of taste, not to say principle and affection, horrible 
still to think of, suspended Toby’s animation beyond all 
hope. William instantly fell upon him, upsetting his milk 
and cream, and gave him a thorough licking, to his own 
intense relief ; and, being late, he got from Pyper, who 
was a martinet, the customary palmies, which he bore with 
something approaching to pleasure. So died Toby; my 
father said little, but he missed and mourned his friend. 

There is reason to believe that by one of those curious 
intertwistings of existence, the milk-boy was that one of 
the drowning party who got the penny of the twopence. 

Rhadamanthine : Rhadamanthus, in the ancient mythology, was a stern 
and impartial judge. haur : An east wind, and the frost it brings with it. 

Lautice and Crab'. See Shakspere’s “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” Crab 
was “ the sourest natured dog that lives.” 



Our next friend was an exquisite shepherd’s dog ; fleet, 
thin-flanked, dainty, and handsome as a small greyhound, 
with all the grace of silky waving black and tan hair. We 
got her thus. Being then young and keen botanists, and 
full of the knowledge and love of Tweedside, having been 
on every hill-top from Muckle Mendic to Hundleshope and 
the Lee Pen, and having fished every water from Tarth to 
the Leithen, we discovered early in spring that young 
Stewart, author of an excellent book on natural history, a 
young man of great promise and early death, had found 
the BuxbaiLmia aphylla, a beautiful and odd-looking moss, 
west of Newbie heights, in the very month we were that 
moment in. We resolved to start next day. We walked 
to Peebles, and then up Haystoun Glen to the cottage of 
Adam Cairns, the aged shepherd of the Newbie hirsel, of 
whom we knew, and who knew of us from his daughter, 
Nancy Cairns, a servant with Uncle Aitken of Callands. 
We found our way up the burn with difficulty, as the 
evening was getting dark ; and on getting near the cottage 

hirsel : flock. 


30 


Wylie. 


31 


heard them at worship. We’ got in, and made ourselves 
known, and got a famous tea, and such cream and oat 
cake: — ^old Adam looking on us as “clean dementit ” to 
come out for “ a bit of moss ” which, however, he knew, 
and with some pride said he would take us in the morning 
to the place. As we were going into a box bed for the 
night, two young men came in, and said they were “ gaun 
to burn the water.” Off we set. It was a clear, dark, 
starlight frosty night. They had their leisters and tar 
torches, and it was something worth seeing — the wild 
flame, the young fellows striking the fish coming to the 
light — how splendid they looked with the light on their 
scales, coming out of the darkness — the stumblings and 
quenchings suddenly of the lights, as the torch-bearer 
fell into a deep pool. We got home past midnight, 
and slept as we seldom sleep now. In the morning 
Adam, who had been long up, and had been up the Hope 
with his dog, when he saw we had awakened, told us 
there was four inches of snow, and we soon saw it was 
too true. So we had to go home without our cryptogamic 
prize. 

It turned out that Adam, who was an old man and frail, 
and had made some money, was going at Whit-Sunday to 
leave, and live with his son in Glasgow. We had been 
admiring the beauty and gentleness and perfect shape of 
Wylie, the finest collie I ever saw, and said, “ What are 
you going to do with Wylie.?” “’Deed,” says he, “I 
hardly ken. I canna think o’ sellin’ her, though she’s 
worth four pound, and she’ll no like the toun.” I said, 
“Would you let me have her.?” and Adam, looking at her 
fondly — she came up instantly to him, and made of him, 

dean denieniit : quite crazy. , 

leisters : three-pronged forks for spearing fish. 


ken : know. 






Wylie. 


33 


— said, “Ay, I wull, if ye’ll be gude to her;” and it was 
settled that when Adam left for Glasgow she should be 
sent into Albany Street by the carrier. 

She came, and was at once taken to all our hearts, even 
grandmother liked her ; and though she was often pensive, 
as if thinking of her master and her work on the hills, she 
made herself at home, and behaved in all respects like a 
lady. When out with me, if she saw sheep in the streets 
or road, she got quite excited, and helped the work, and 
was curiously useful, the being so making her wonderfully 
happy. And so her little life went on, never doing wrong, 
always blithe and kind and beautiful. For some months 
after she came, there was a mystery about her : every 
Tuesday evening she disappeared ; we tried to watch her, 
but in vain, she was always off by nine p.m., and was away 
all night, coming back next day wearied and all over mud, 
as if she had travelled far. She slept all next day. This 
went on for some months and we could make nothing of 
it. Poor dear creature, she looked at us wistfully when 
she came in, as if she would have told us if she could, and 
was especially fond, though tired. 

Well, one day I was walking across the Grassmarket, 
with Wylie at my heels, when two shepherds started, and 
looking at her, one said, “ That’s her ; that’s the wonder- 
fu’ wee dog that naebody kens.” I asked him what he 
meant, and he told me that for months past she had made 
her appearance by the first daylight at the “buchts” or 
sheep-pens in the cattle market, and worked incessantly, 
and to excellent purpose, in helping the shepherds to get 
their sheep and lambs in. The man said with a sort of 
transport, “She’s a perfect meeracle, flees about like a 
speerit, and never gangs wrang ; wears but never grups, 
and beats a’ oor dowgs. She’s a perfect meeracle, and as 


34 


Our Dogs. 


soople as a maiikmy Then he related how they all knew 
her, and said, “ There’s that wee fell yin ; we’ll get them 
in noo.” They tried to coax her to stop and be caught, 
but no, she was gentle, but off ; and for many a day that 
“ wee fell yin ” was spoken of by these rough fellows. 
She continued this amateur work till she died, which she 
did in peace. 

It is very touching the regard the south-country shep- 
herds have to their dogs. Professor Syme one day, many 
years ago, when living in Forres Street, was looking out 
of his window, and he saw a young shepherd striding 
down North Charlotte Street, as if making for his house ; 
it was midsummer. The man had his dog with him, and 
Mr. Syme noticed that he followed the dog, and not it him, 
though he contrived to steer for the house. He came, and 
was ushered into his room ; he wished advice about some 
ailment, and Mr. Syme saw that he had a bit of twine 
round the dog’s neck, which he let drop out of his hand 
when he entered the room. He asked him the mean- 
ing of this, and he explained that the magistrates had 
issued a mad-dog proclamation, commanding all dogs to 
be muzzled or led on pain of death. “ And why do you 
go about as I saw you did before you came in to me } ” 
“ Oh,” said he, looking awkward, “ I didna want Birkie 
to ken he was tied.” Where will you find truer cour- 
tesy and finer feeling } He didn’t want to hurt Birkie’s 
feelings. 

Mr. Carruthers, of Inverness, told me a new story of 
these wise sheep dogs. A butcher from Inverness had 
purchased some sheep at Dingwall, and giving them in 
charge to his dog, left the road. The dog drove them on, 

soople : supple. maukin : a hare. 

that wee fell yin : that keen little one. 


Wylie. 


35 


till coming to a toll, the toll-wife stood before the drove, 
demanding her dues. The dog looked at her, and, jump- 
ing on her back, crossed his forelegs over her arms. The 
sheep passed through, and the dog took his place behind 
them, and went on his way. 



Of Rab I have little to say, indeed, have little right to 
speak of him as one of “our dogs”; but nobody will be 
sorry to hear anything of that noble fellow. Ailie, the 
day or two after the operation, when she was well and i 
cheery, spoke about him, and said she would tell me fine | 
stories when I came out, as I promised to do, to see her at 
Howgate. I asked her how James came to get him. She ;; 
told me that one day she saw James coming down from 
Leadburn with the cart ; he had been away west, getting 
eggs and butter, cheese and hens for Edinburgh. She 
saw he was in some trouble, and on looking, there was 
what she thought a young calf being dragged, or, as she 
called it, “haurled,” at the back of the cart. James was 
in front, and when he came up, very warm and very angry, 
she saw there was a huge young dog tied to the cart, 
struggling and pulling back with all his might, and as she 
said “lookin’ fearsome.” James, who was out of breath 
and temper, being past his time, explained to Ailie, that 
this “ muckle brute o’ a whalp ” had been worrying sheep, 
and terrifying everybody up at Sir George Montgomery’s, 
at Macbie Hill, and that Sir George had ordered him to be 
hanged, which, however, was sooner said than done, as 
“the thief” showed his intentions of dying hard. James 
came up just as Sir George had sent for his gun, and as 
the dog had more than once shown a liking for him, he 

muckle . . . xvhalp : big . . . whelp. 

36 


Rab. 


37 


said he “ wad gie him a chance ” ; and so he tied him to 
his cart. Young Rab, fearing some mischief, had been 
entering a series of protests all the way, and nearly stran- 
gling himself to spite James and Jess, besides giving Jess 
more than usual to do. “ I wish I had let Sir George pit 
that charge into him, the thrawn brute,” said James. But 
Ailie had seen that in his foreleg there was a splinter of 
wood, which he had likely got when objecting to be 
hanged, and that he was miserably lame. So she got 
James to leave him with her, and go straight into Edin- 
burgh. She gave him water, and by her woman’s wit got 
his lame paw under a door, so that he couldn’t suddenly 
get at her, then with a quick, firm hand she plucked out 
the splinter, and put in an ample meal. She went in some 
time after, taking no notice of him, and he came limping 
up, and laid his great jaws in her lap ; from that moment 
they were “chief,” as she said, James finding him mansiiete 
and civil when he returned. 

She said it was Rab’s habit to make his appearance 
exactly half an hour before his master, trotting in full of 
importance, as if to say, “ He’s all right, he’ll be here.” 
One morning James came without him. He had left 
Edinburgh very early, and in coming near Auchindinay, 
at a lonely part of the road, a man sprang out on him, and 
demanded his money. James, who was a cool hand, said, 
“Weel a weel, let me get it,” and stepping back, he said 
to Rab, “ Speak till him, my man.” In an instant Rab 
was standing over him, threatening strangulation if he 
stirred. James pushed on, leaving Rab in charge; he 
looked back, and saw that every attempt to rise was sum- 

pit : put. thrawn brute : ill-tempered brute. 

mansuete : an almost obsolete word, meaning tame or gentle. 
till him ; to him. 


38 


Our Dogs. 


marily put down. As he was telling Ailie the story, up 
came Rah with that great swing of his. It turned out 
that the robber was a Howgate lad, the worthless son 
of a neighbor, and Rab, knowing him, had let him 
cheaply off. . . . James, who did not know the way 
to tell an untruth, or embellish anything, told me this 
as what he called “a fact positeevely.” 



Was a dark brindled bull-terrier, as pure in blood as 
Cruiser or Wild Dayrell. She was brought by my father 
from Otley, in the West Riding. She was very hand- 
some, fierce, and gentle, with a small, compact, finely 
shaped head, and a pair of wonderful eyes, — as full of 
fire and of softness as Grisi’s ; indeed, she had to my eye 
a curious look of that wonderful genius, — at once wild 
and fond. It was a fine sight to see her on the prowl 
across Bowden Moor, now cantering with her nose down, 
now gathered up on the top of a dyke, and with erect 
ears looking across the wild like a moss-trooper out on 
business keen and fell. She could do everything it be- 
came a dog to do, from killing an otter or a polecat to 
watching and playing with a baby, and was as docile to her 
master as she was surly to all else. She was not quarrel- 
some, but, “ being in,” she would have pleased Polonius as 
much as in being “ware of entrance.” She was never 
beaten, and she killed on the spot several of the country 
bullies who came out upon her when following her master 
in his rounds. She generally sent them off howling with 
one snap, but if this was not enough, she made an 
end of it. 

Grisi, Giulia : a famous and beautiful opera singer (’1811-1869). 

Polonius : See Shakspere’s play of “ Hamlet.” 

39 


40 


Our Dogs. 


But it was as a mother that she shone ; and to see the 
gypsy, Hagar-like creature nursing her occasional Ishmael, 
— playing with him and fondling him all over, teaching 
his teeth to war, and with her eye and the curl of her lip 
daring any one but her master to touch him, was like 
seeing Grisi watching her darling “ Ge7inaro^' who so 
little knew why and how much she loved him. 

Once when she had three pups, one of them died. ‘For 
two days and nights she gaye herself up to trying to bring 
it to life, — licking it and turning it over and over, growl- 
ing over it, and all but worrying it to awake it. She paid 
no attention to the living two, gave them no milk, flung 
them away with her teeth, and would have killed them 
had they been allowed to remain with her. She was as 
one possessed, and neither ate, nor drank, nor slept, . . . 
and in such a state of excitement that no one could remove 
the dead pup. 

Early on the third day she was seen to take the pup in 
her mouth and start across the fields toward the Tweed, 
striding like a race horse, — she plunged in, holding up 
her burden, and at the middle of the stream dropped it 
and swam swiftly ashore ; then she stood and watched the 
little dark lump floating away, bobbing up and down with 
the current, and, losing it at last far down, she made her 
way home, sought out the living two, devoured them with 
her love, carried them one by one to her lair, and gave 
herself up wholly to nurse them. . . . 

On one occasion my brother had lent her to a woman 
who lived in a lonely house, and whose husband was away 
for a time. She was a capital watch. One day an Italian 
with his organ came — first begging, then demanding 

Gennaro : A character in the opera of “ Lucrezia Borgia,” in which Grisi 
often played. 


Wasp. 


41 


money — showing that he knew she was alone, and that 
he meant to help himself, if she didn’t. She threatened 
to “ lowse the dowg ” ; but as this was Greek to him, he 
pushed on. She had just time to set Wasp at him. It 
was very short work. She had him by the throat, pulled 



Holding up her Burden.’’ 


him and his organ down with a heavy crash, the organ 
giving a ludicrous sort of cry of musical pain. Wasp, 
thinking this was from some creature within, possibly a 
whittret, left the ruffian, and set to work tooth and nail on 
the box. Its master slunk off, and with mingled fury and 


whittret : a weasel. 


42 Our Dogs. 

thankfulness watched her disembowelling his only means 
of an honest living. The woman good-naturedly took her 
off, and signed to the miscreant to make himself and his 
remains scarce. This he did with a scowl ; and was 
found in the evening in the village, telling a series of lies 
to the watchmaker, and bribing him with a shilling to 
mend his pipes — “his kist o’ whussels.” 

kist o' whussels: a chest (box) of whistles — a term often contemptu- 
ously applied in Scotland to an organ, and particularly by those extreme 
Puritans who objected to church music. 




Was insane from his birth ; at first only mildly so, but ending 
in mischief and sudden death. He was an English terrier, 
fawn-colored ; his mother’s name Vamp (Vampire) and 
his father’s Demon. He was more properly daft than 
mad ; his courage, muscularity, and prodigious animal 
spirits making him insufferable, and never allowing one 
sane feature of himself any chance. No sooner was the 
street door open, than he was throttling the first dog pass- 
ing, bringing upon himself and me endless grief. Cats he 
tossed up into the air, and crushed their spines as they 
fell. Old ladies he upset by jumping over their heads; 
old gentlemen by running between their legs. At home, 
he would think nothing of leaping through the tea-things, 
upsetting the urn, cream, etc., and at dinner the same sort 
of thing. I believe if I could have found time to thrash 
him sufficiently, and let him be a year older, we might 
have kept him ; but having upset an Earl, when the streets 
were muddy, I had to part with him. He was sent to a 
clergyman in the island of Westray, one of the Orkneys ; 
and though he had a wretched voyage, and was as sick as 
any dog, he signalized the first moment of his arrival at the 
manse by strangling an ancient monkey, or “ puggy,” the 
pet of the minister, — who was a bachelor, — and the won- 

43 


44 


Our Dogs. 


der of the island. Jock henceforward took to evil courses, 
hunting the best rams, driving whole hirsels down steep 
places into the sea, till at last all the guns of Westray were 



pointed at him as he stood at bay under a huge rock on 
the shore, and blew him into space. I always regret his 
end, and blame myself for sparing the rod. Of 



I have already spoken ; her oddities were endless. We 
had and still have a dear friend, — “ Cousin Susan ” she is 
called by many who are not her cousins — a perfect lady, 
and, though helplessly deaf, as gentle and contented as 
was ever Griselda with the full use of her ears ; quite as 
great a pet, in a word, of us all as Duchie was of ours. 
One day we found her mourning the death of a cat, a 
great playfellow of the Sputchard’s, and her small Grace 
was with us when we were condoling with her, and we saw 
that she looked very wistfully at Duchie. I wrote on the 
slate, “ Would you like her ? ” and she through her tears 
said, “You know that would never do.” But it did do. 
We left Duchie that very night, and though she paid us 
frequent visits, she was Cousin Susan’s for life. I fear in- 
dulgence dulled her moral sense. She was an immense 
happiness to her mistress, whose silent and lonely days she 
made glad with her oddity and mirth. And yet the small 
creature, old, toothless, and blind, domineered over her 
gentle friend — threatening her sometimes if she presumed 
to remove the small Fury from the inside of her own bed, 
into which it pleased her to creep. Indeed, I believe it is 

Griselda : The model of a patient woman, whose story is told in the 
Clerk’s Tale in Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales.” 

45 



Duchie. 


47 


true, though it was inferred only, that her mistress and 
friend spent a great part of a winter night in trying to 
coax her dear little ruffian out of the centre of the bed. 
One day the cook asked what she would have for dinner : 
“ I would like a mutton chop, but then, you know, Duchie 
likes minced veal better ! ” The faithful and happy little 
creature died at a great age, of natural decay. 

But time would fail me, and I fear patience would fail 
you, my reader, were I to tell you of Crab, of John Pym, 
of Puck, and of the rest. Crab, the Mugger s dog, grave, 
with deep-set, melancholy eyes, as of a nobleman (say the 
Master of Ravenswood) in disguise, large visaged, shaggy, 
indomitable, come of the pure Piper Allan’s breed. This 
Piper Allan, you must know, lived some two hundred years 
ago in Cocquet Water, piping, like Homer, from place to 
place, and famous not less for his dog than for his music, 
his news and his songs. The Earl of Northumberland, of 
his day, offered the piper a small farm for his dog, but 
after deliberating for a day Allan said, “ Na, na, ma Lord, 
keep yir ferum ; what wud a piper do wi’ a ferum ? ” 
From this dog descended Davidson (the original Dandie- 
Dinmont) of Hyndlee’s breed, and Crab could count his 
kin up to him. He had a great look of the Right Honor- 
able Edward Ellice, and had much of his energy and 
wecht ; had there been a dog House of Commons, Crab 
would have spoken as seldom, and been as great a power 
in the house, as the formidable and faithful time-out-of- 
mind member for Coventry. . 

Dandie-Dinmont : For the story of the original Danclie-Dinmont — a 
Scotchtower breed of dog — read Sir Walter Scott’s “ Guy Mannering.” 

wecht : here means weight. 



John Pym was a smaller dog than Crab, of more fash- 
ionable blood, being a son of Mr. Sommer’s famous Shem, 
whose father and brother are said to have been found dead 
in a drain into which the hounds had run a fox. It had 
three entrances ; the father was put in at one hole, the son 
at another, and speedily the fox bolted out at the third, but 
no appearance of the little terriers, and on digging, they 
were found dead, locked in each other’s jaws ; they had 
met, and it being dark, and there being no time for ex- 
planations, they had throttled each other. John was made 
of the same sort of stuff, and was as combative and vic- 
torious as his great namesake, and not unlike him in some 
of his not so creditable qualities. He must, I think, have 
been related to a certain dog to whom “ life was full o’ 
sairiousness,” but in John’s case the same cause produced 
an opposite effect. John was gay and light-hearted, even 
when there was not “enuff of fechtin’,” which, however, 
seldom happened, there being a market every week in 
Melrose, and John appearing most punctually at the cross 
to challenge all comers, and being short legged he in- 
veigled every dog into an engagement by first attacking 
him, and then falling down on his back, in which posture 
he latterly fought and won all his battles. 

48 



What can I say of Puck — the thoroughbred — the 
simple-hearted, the purloiner of eggs warm from the hen 
— the flutterer of all manner of Volscians — the bandy- 
legged, dear, old, dilapidated buffer ? I got him from my 
brother, and only parted with him because William’s stock 
was gone. He had to the end of life a simplicity which 
was quite touching. One summer day — a dog-day — 
when all dogs found straying were hauled away to the 
police-office, and killed off in twenties with strychnine, I 
met Puck trotting along Princes Street with a policeman, a 
rope round his neck, he looking up in the fatal, official, 
but kindly countenance in the most artless and cheerful 
manner, wagging his tail and trotting along. In ten 
minutes he would have been in the next world ; for I am 
one of those who believe dogs have a next world, and why 
not ? Puck ended his days as the best dog in Roxburgh- 
shire.* May he rest in peace! 

Volscians : a brave and warlike people of ancient Italy, constantly fighting 
with Rome. Read Macaulay’s “ Lays of Ancient Rome.” 

49 



“PURLOINER OF EGGS.” 



! 

i 

% 



I Still lives, and long may he live ! As he was never born, 
: possibly he may never die ; be it so, he will miss us when 
[ we are gone. I could say much of him, but agree with 
. the lively and admirable Dr. Jortin, when, in his dedica- 
tion of his Remarks on Ecclesiastical History to the then 
(1752) Archbishop of Canterbury, he excuses himself for 
not following the modern custom of praising his Patron, 

, by reminding his Grace “that it was a custom amongst the 
ancients, not to sacrifice to heroes till after sunset.” I 
defer my sacrifice till Dick’s sun is set. 

: I think every family should have a dog ; it is like having 

a perpetual baby ; it is the plaything and crony of the 
whole house. It keeps them all young. All unite upon 
Dick. And then he tells no tales, betrays no secrets, 
never sulks, asks no troublesome questions, never gets into 
debt, never coming down late for breakfast, or coming in 
through his Chubb too early to bed — is always ready for 
a bit of fun, lies in wait for it, and you may, if choleric, to 
your relief, kick him instead of some one else, who would 
not take it so meekly, and, moreover, would certainly not, 
as he does, ask your pardon for being kicked. 

Chubb : The latch-keys in England are made to fit the locks by Chubb, 
the famous London lock-maker. 

51 


I 


5 ^ 


Our Dogs. 


Never put a collar on your dog — it only gets him stolen ; 
give him only one meal a day, and let that, as Dame 
Dorothy, Sir Thomas Browne’s wife, would say, be “ ray- 
ther under.” Wash him once a week, and always wash 
the soap out ; and let him be carefully combed and brushed 
twice a week. 

By the bye, I was wrong in saying that it was Burns 
who said Man is the God of the Dog — he got it from 
Bacon’s Essay on Atheism. 

Sir Thomas Browne : the famous English author (1605-1682) of the 
“ Religio Medici.” His domestic letters, which have been preserved, give 
glimpses of the happy home-life of that day. 



Peter. 


Peter died young, — very quick and soon that bright 
thing came to confusion. He died of excess of life ; his 
vivacity slew him. Plucky and silent under punishment 
or any pain from without, pain from within, in his own 
precious, brisk, enjoying body, was an insufferable offence, 
affront, and mystery, — an astonishment not to be borne, 
— he disdained to live under such conditions. 

One day he came in howling with pain. There was no 
injury, no visible cause, but he was wildly ill, and in his 
eyes the end of all things had come. He put so many 
questions to us at each pang — what is this ? — did you 
ever ? As each paroxysm doubled him up, he gave a 
sharp cry, more of rage and utter exasperation than of 
suffering; he got up to run away from it — why should he 
die ? Why should he be shut up in darkness and obstruc- 
tion at that hour of his opening morn, — his sweet hour 
of prime ? And so raging, and utterly put out, the honest, 
dear little fellow went off in an ecstasy of fury at death, 
at its absurdity in his case. 


53 


54 


More of “ Our Dogs.” 


We never could explain his death ; it was not poison or 
injury; he actually expired when careering round the 
green at full speed, as if to outrun his enemy or shake 
him off. We have not yet got over his loss, and all the 
possibilities that lie buried in his grave, in the Park, be- 
neath a young chestnut tree where the ruddy-cheeked,’ fat, 
and cordial coachman, who of old, in the grand old 
Reform days, used to drive his master, Mr. Speaker Aber- 
cromby, down to “the House” with much stateliness and j 
bouquet, and I dug it for him, — that park in which Peter 
had often disported himself, fluttering the cocks and hens, 
and putting to flight the squadron of Gleneagle’s wedders. j 

Dick. 

He too is dead, — he who, never having been born, 
we had hoped never would die ; not that he did — like 
Rab — “exactly” die; he was slain. He was fourteen, 
and getting deaf and blind, and a big bully of a retriever 1 
fell on him one Sunday morning when the bells were ' 
ringing. Dick, who always fought at any odds, gave ■ 
battle ; a Sabbatarian cab turned the corner, the big dog ' 
fled, and Dick was run over, — there in his own street, as 1 
all his many friends were going to church. His back was 
broken, and he died on Monday night with us all about 
him ; dear for his own sake, dearer for another’s, whose 
name — Sine Qna Non — is now more than ever true, now 
that she is gone. ■* 

I was greatly pleased when Dr. Cotting of Roxbury 
came in yesterday and introduced himself to me by ask- i 
ing, “ Where is Dick t ” To think of our Dick being ’ 
known in Massachusetts ! v 

i 

I 



If Peter was the incarnation of vivacity, Bob was that 
of energy. He should have been called Thalaba the 
Destroyer. He rejoiced in demolition, — not from ill tem- 
per, but from the sheer delight of energizing. 

When I first knew him he was at Blinkbonny toll. The 
tollman and his wife were old and the house lonely, and 
Bob was too terrific for any burglar. He was tall and 
heavy as a foxhound, but in every other respect a pure, 
old-fashioned, wiry, short-haired Scotch terrier, — red as 
Rob Roy’s beard, — having indeed other qualities of 
Rob’s than his hair, — choleric, unscrupulous, affectionate, 
stanch, — not in the least magnanimous, — as ready to 
worry a little dog as a big one. Fighting was his “chief 
end,” and he omitted no opportunity of accomplishing his 
end. Rab liked fighting for its own sake, too, but scorned 
to fight anything under his own weight ; indeed, was long- 
suffering to public meanness with quarrelsome lesser dogs. 
Bob had no such meanness. 

After much difficulty and change of masters, I bought 
him, I am ashamed to say, for five pounds, and brought 

Thalaba the Destroyer : a story by Robert Southey, the poet. 

L.ofC. 55 


56 


More of Our Dogs.” 


him home. He had been chained for months, was in high 
health and spirits, and the surplus power and activity of 
this great creature, as he dragged me and my son along 
the road, giving battle to every dog he met, was some- 
thing appalling. 

I very soon found I could not keep him. He worried 
the pet dogs all around, and got me into much trouble. 

So I gave him as night-watchman to a goldsmith on 
Princes Street. This work he did famously. I once, in 
passing at midnight, stopped at the shop and peered in at 
the little slip of glass, and by tho gaslight saw where he ' 
lay. I made a noise, and out came he with a roar and a 
bang as of a sledge-hammer. I then called his name, and 
in an instant all was still except a quick tapping within j 
that intimated the wagging of the tail. He is still there, 

— has settled down into a reputable, pacific citizen, — a 
good deal owing, perhaps, to the disappearance in battle 
of sundry of his best teeth. As he lies in the sun before i 
the shop door, he looks somehow like the old Fighting ; 
Temeraire. ' 

I never saw a dog of the same breed ; he is a sort of ' 
rough cob of a dog — a huge quantity of terrier in one 
skin ; for he has all the fun and briskness and failings and ^ 
ways of a small dog, begging and hopping as only it does. 
Once his master took him to North Berwick. His first 
day he spent in careering about the sands and rocks and 
in the sea, for he is a noble swimmer. His next he : 
devoted to worrying all the dogs of the town, beginning, ^ 
for convenience, with the biggest. 

This aroused the citizens, and their fury was brought to a ■ 
focus on the third day by its being reported alternatively • 

Fighting Temeraire : The author refers to the picture of the famous I 
battleship by the English artist J. M. W. Turner. | 


Bob, 


57 


that he had torn a child’s ear off, or torn and actually 
eaten it. Up rose the town as one man, and the women 
each as two, and, headed by Matthew Cathie, the one-eyed 
and excellent shoemaker, with a tall, raw, divinity student, 
knock-kneed and six feet two, who was his lodger, and was 
of course called young Dominie Sampson. They bore 
down upon Bob and his master, who were walking calmly 
on the shore. 

Bob was for making a stand, after the manner of Corio- 
lanus, and banishing by instant assault the “ common cry 



“They bore down upon Bob and his Master.” 


of curs,” but his master saw sundry guns and pistols, not 
to speak of an old harpoon, and took to his heels, as the 
only way of getting Bob to take to his. Atmfex, with 
much notis, made for the police station, and, with the 
assistance of the constables and half a crown, got Thalaba 
locked up for the night, safe and sulky. 

Next morning, Sunday, when Cathie and his huge stu- 
dent lay uneasily asleep, dreaming of vengeance, and the 

Coriolanus : a proud and haughty Roman who fought with the Volscians 
against the Romans. [See Shakspere’s play of “ Coriolanus.”] 

Aurifex : golden, gleaming, referring to the color of Bob’s coat. 


58 


More of “Our Dogs/' 


early dawn was beautiful upon the Bass, with its snowy 
cloud of seabirds “ brooding on the charmed wave,” Bob 
was hurried up to the station, locked into a horse-box, — 
him never shall that ancient Burgh forget or see. 

I have a notion that dogs have humor, and are per- 
ceptive of a joke. In the North, a shepherd, having sold 
his sheep at a market, was asked by the buyer to lend him 
his dog to take them home. “ By a’ manner o’ means tak’ 
Birkie, and when ye’r dune wi’ him just play so” (making 
a movement with his arm), “and he’ll be hame in a jiffy.” 
Birkie was so clever and useful and gay that the borrower 
coveted him ; and on getting to his farm shut him up, 
intending to keep him. Birkie escaped during the night, 
and took the entire hirsel back to his own master ! 
Fancy him trotting across the moor with them, they as 
willing as he. 



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